


The Swan

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, Reconciliation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 10:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12792360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: She is here, Sebastian realizes, both familiar and strange; a litany of paradoxes overtake the rational forefront of his mind and strips him of the vice he has always known. It plants, in crude, punctuating jabs, the memory that he once called her his angel-wife and thought the whole of the universe could have been unlocked by the emerald in her eyes.(Sebastian initiates a kiss that has no end or beginning—only a strange in-between that takes Lizzy’s breath away and forces him to his knees, gently bringing this golden seraph into his lap. His tongue traces her soft lower lip, tasting the sweetness of champagne and something else that is so distinctly human—so wonderfully good—that the angel he once was craves more.)Sebastian/Elizabeth reincarnation AU





	The Swan

It had happened once before, many centuries ago—somewhere before the Black Death—he had fallen in love with a woman of human origin, with a smile as bright as the sun, and a love that consumed him wholly. She had been pregnant with his child, full of joy and possibility, when the villagers attacked, calling her a witch and burning his beloved and their unborn child at the stake. In a moment of unadulterated grief, he had turned to a hellish power that was never to be unleashed and attempted to decimate all of humanity. 

They took _her_ away, the woman who had given him so much life when he thought heaven was—now is—forever out of reach. Like Midas he fell, hands trembling as he caressed her face, having brought death and destruction on the one he loved best. Since his transformation for a transgression best forgotten, the fallen angel of lost eden had held some strange hope that one day, by hook or by crook, redemption might be earned. If he paid his penance and served his time, he might one day ascend to the heavenly guard and protect those he’d sworn eternal devotion towards. 

But then _she_ died, taking with her the final breath of the cosmos and he, with power untold, caressed so softly her broken body. He burned with what the stars might call passion but it was she who could help him make sense of the colors he saw—but never again. The stained crimson that dyed her mouth, not flushed from a lover's kiss but a heinous, hideous red that marred the perfection of her fair face. 

For five centuries he consumed the souls of those who made him, whose mortal depravity forged cruelty where there once was goodness and whose intolerance bore hatred where he once knew love. He despised them, the whole wretched lot—the earl, that precarious child of Hobbesian intellect and ruined beauty, was no different but the curious composition of his heart was an amusing timepiece and Sebastian had grown tired of hell’s monotony. Running about the Europe he once tried to destroy, Sebastian was content with this strange new development—a gothic vaudeville sure to end badly—until he saw _her._

And for a moment—a brief, tremulous moment—the whirling world was still. 

She was childish, inconsistent, beautiful, and golden. 

She was bright and effervescent, so full of life it made his undead heart ache with tender trust. She looked so much like _her_ that Sebastian wondered if _this,_ at last, was his own earned hell. The future wife of the Queen’s Watchdog was the very reincarnation of his genesis, of the love that once consumed. For she, the Lady Elizabeth, embodied her spirit—her unfailing courage, her sweet purity that somehow, even through the empty night, shone with divine light. 

She consumed his waking days, latching onto him with her milk teeth and transfixing him with wide eyes. Her breaths were soft and sweet, the gentle rise and fall of her breast when she became excited, and the frenzied, lively motion of her hands that caught his wrists and pulled him towards her like a hurricane through open water. But, as time was fixed, it was when eventide fell and the silence of the world frothed and simmered, corroding what was with what could be, that Sebastian felt 544 years of longing puncture the half-healed suture around his heart. 

It began as a test of mettle, to ensure that he would never prioritize the foolish inclinations of affection over his true demonic disposition. The boy was to be carefully cultivated for the demon’s base appetites, persuasively guided so his burning soul could be extracted and his physical body discarded, to rot and decay while Sebastian fled into the night. 

So he had climbed the trellised rose vine that led to Lady Elizabeth’s bedchamber. He would do no serious harm to her, just enough that she remained bedridden, unable to torment him. _Let love itself slumber on._

But through the stained glass windows, he spied her—hair unbound and skin, rosy pale—sitting before a gilded vanity, bushing her curls and wearing a smile of such sweet sadness he wanted to rush into her arms and cry the ancient name he had never forgotten. It was a poor contest of wills. 

With the inky strands of night binding him to obscurity, Sebastian watched her read poetry ( _Rimbaud_ and _De Lamartine_ and the essence of beauty itself); she wrote letters—pages and pages of spiraling prose—that were addressed to names he cared very little about. 

Through a multitude of evenings strung together, he weathered the elements to watch her write and read, to observe her on horseback or wielding silver sabres, dueling swordsmen who fell, one by one, to the edge of her blade. He knew of her prodigious skill and the strange, altruistic agony she held towards her true self. She carried this grief in her arms, weaving gossamer memories that increased in weight and size until they bruised her hands and cut into the soft flesh of her forearms. She was a psalm—a fervent, hastily whispered prayer amidst the rose gardens— 

(But when _Campania_ came and the undead roamed, Sebastian wanted to take this girl and hold her against him and tell her to _run._ He had never been so desperate than in that one brief moment, when the Reapers were thwarting his attempts to reach her. He could only see the struggle between _the girl who is_ and _the woman that could be_ and a flair of desperate anger coursed through him.) 

And it was then that Sebastian remembered how to _feel._

 

* * *

 

He guards her more closely now, concocts ways for Lady Elizabeth to enjoy long hours at the manor where her golden hair could glimmer under the spring sun. He watches as Father Time blesses her with romantic beauty and tragic loveliness—she is the last rose to bloom during the summer months, soft pink and fragrant, full of honey and tender want. 

It also seemed that cruelty, no matter how prominent a factor in his malignant existence, sought to abandon him when, on the lady’s 18th birthday, Sebastian found himself alone with her—in the _wine cellar_ of all places. She was illuminated by the dim candlelight and dressed in a gown of blush satin accentuating her slim figure, exposing full breasts and apple white skin that was still, as of yet, unmarred.

_Untouched._

 

“My lady.” His voice falls to near silence. “Is there anything you need?” 

Whatever pressing matter the lady wished to discuss falters on the tip of her tongue. She looks half confused as to why she is down there but he can hear the unsteady rhythm of her heart, how the words she wishes to say are suddenly all in a bind. “I am not sure,” she finally confesses. “I saw you vanish and wanted to thank you for the cake but somehow, my gratitude is now being very poorly verbalized and all of mother’s teachings have fallen from my mind.” Her cheeks color. “Forgive me, Sebastian. I feel quite unbalanced tonight.” 

“The champagne, I’m sure.” He offers, observing the pulse of her throat and the soft, _cloud soft,_ tops of her breasts that rise with each breath she takes. “If you would grant me the honor, I should like to escort you upstairs. The soiree is in your honor, my lady.” 

A right proper breech of etiquette. 

“Please.” (The word escapes into the air and neither knows who has said it.) 

She moves closer and he is suddenly tense, rigid with volatile want. 

She smells of honeysuckle and warm sunlight. The man in him cries out for salvation while the wretched memories he has never quite managed to forget burst to the forefront of his mind. 

He offers her his arm, expression serene, but he has never felt more vulnerable than now. Every limb aches with familiar desire—he yearns to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around her waist, to cry _at last_ as she holds him, hands warm against his cheeks. She has been gone far too long and now, returned, his lady is the fiancée to a sullen boy who has only begun to realize the treasure he possesses. 

He cuts his tongue against his teeth, swallowing the blood in an attempt to tame the raging inferno burning within his black, inhuman soul. 

She saintly—delicately—puts her arm through his but they do not move. Her satin skirts brush against Sebastian’s calves and as she rises, leaning ever closer against him, the whole right side of her body caresses him with a pressure that undoes his mind completely. 

“My lady.” His voice is strained, so full of broken desire that she turns to face him fully, brows furrowed and emerald eyes gleaming. “My lady, _please._ ” He does not know what he is asking for until she takes a sharp, quiet inhale and her rose petal lips part. 

Sebastian initiates a kiss that has no end or beginning—only a strange in-between that takes Lizzy’s breath away and forces him to his knees, gently bringing this golden seraph into his lap. His tongue traces her soft lower lip, tasting the sweetness of champagne and something else that is so distinctly human—so wonderfully good—that the angel he once was craves _more._ One arm tightens around her waist while her arms have been forced, by the crushing force of his kiss, to grip onto the lapels of his suit jacket and she whimpers when Sebastian presses another burning kiss against her red, red mouth. 

His free hand comes up to caress her face but the barrier of his gloves makes him growl in frustration. With uncommon impatience he yanks them off to bury one hand in her soft golden curls, all but moaning at the strangely familiar sensation. His fingertips trail down the side of her face, brushing against warm, silken skin until he trails an invisible line down the back of her dress. 

He fixes their position, jostling her closer to him. With their heated bodies pressed together in so intimate a fashion, Lady Elizabeth begins her own soft nips at his mouth and jaw. He buries his head against her neck and sucks at the tender flesh there while his hands, dexterous and sure, unlace the silk cords that hold her bodice together until he hears her give a sharp, sudden cry of protest. 

The mania that had taken hold of him quiets, and the fog breaks. It is with sudden insecurity that he sees the Lady Elizabeth, gown half off her shoulders, lying on top of him in a manner that arouses him all the more. For half a second he wants to forget the whole of hell and earth, to burn her tattered silk and instead coat her with his colors. After all, it wouldn't be very difficult to convince her to continue he thinks, not when her skin is flushed and her breasts are nearly bursting the seams of her bodice. 

(But not like this, his hands refuse to move. Not like  _this._ Not when  her eyes are sad and panicked and she does not look at him the way he remembers—)

“Lady Elizabeth.” He says her name—a statement, nothing else. 

“I’m sorry!” She immediately apologizes, looking right at the ground next to Sebastian, cheeks dark pink and lower lip trembling. “I’m such a wretched girl, aren’t I? Throwing myself at you—oh please, I didn’t mean to! Please don’t be upset, I’m dreadfully, terribly sorry!” 

_So good, so pure, so…_

“Nonsense, my lady. If anything, the fault is mine. I have broken the accord of servility and apologize for my disgraceful actions.” He says this all with her still on top of him, arm around her waist. 

He laces her dress and they rise from the ground but her kiss still burns in Sebastian’s mind and he decides to be selfish—after all, he’s been nothing but selfish for these past five centuries. 

"Shall we?" He offers her his arm. 

She looks at him, unsure and skittish as a spring fawn. "Yes, yes alright." She says, more sure now as she hides the shredded ribbon of her gown and locks her arm through his. "We shall."

He smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is actually a companion piece to chapter 29 (“Coronet of black death”) of my Bright Star series. (Note: please take this fic with a grain of salt. This is not canon. Just me writing up impossible headcanons.)


End file.
